Death
by TyrantChimera
Summary: The bad ending. Is this the death of a soul, or the birth of another? Apathetic elation. Cloud Strife, Sephiroth. It never ends, except when it does... Totally random giftfic for AnbarElectrum, based on the "An exercise in Insanity" 'verse.


Inspired by "An Exercise in Insanity" by AnbarElectrum. Their fic touches upon DABDA, the 5 stages of grief. A glorious fic that left me wanting more so much I had to scream, run to my computer in the middle of the night, and write more myself. I was trying to sleep damnit!

Without further ado...

* * *

Time and time again. He'd lost track long ago. Of how many times his enemy had come back, spurning the laws of life and death set by Gaia. Of how many times he, Cloud Strife, had fought this enemy on behalf of the planet. As her champion, her WEAPON. She had deemed, long ago, that it was his fate to strike down Sephiroth. Strike him down, again and again. She had decided, he had volunteered, that Cloud was her answer. Or had it been her, the Planet, Mother Gaia? Minerva? Or had it been Sephiroth himself who had, perhaps unwittingly, chosen his timeless executioner?

And so Cloud had fought. Again and again. Every few years, every few decades, for centuries, for time immemorial. Until the world had forgotten his name, until his friends had faded or left him to the wilds he roamed, until the dawn and dusk had risen and fallen once more until infinity. Until the only thing he knew of himself, for certain, was that he was tired, and faded, and that Sephiroth was the only constant in this twisted, endless life. Until he made the mistake, one day, of realizing a horrid, placid truth.

Blood is on the end of his sword. Spattering his face, covering his arms and chest, and dripping steadily from the man spitted upon the end of his blade. Sephiroth smiles benevolently at his sanctioned murderer. Cloud doesn't even narrow his eyes. He feels the blade from both ends, handle and edge, as Sephiroth's consciousness curls around his, dragging him into his own. Soft and menacing as a drifting cobweb on his skin, but deep and unending. Sephiroth's hatred and desire. His avarice and possessiveness, clutching at him tightly and never letting go. Dragging hooks into the back of Cloud's consciousness, hooks that he'd long forgotten hadn't always existed. Hooks to snag him, ensnare him, own him. To capture his mind in a cage, in Sephiroth's grasp. To share his sickening pain and terrifying _want_.

This isn't the first time he's tried to tear Cloud to pieces by turning the tables. By pulling him into his mind, rather than forcing his way into Cloud's. Fathomless, alluring, horrifying. The depths of darkness and depravity, trying to drown Cloud in their eager mires.

It's not the first time. It won't be the last.

The planet had long ago stopped paying heed to these battles. Overlooked, ignored. Cloud was her champion. He would defend her until the end of time. She could rely on him, again and again. She did not raise the WEAPONs in defense against the invader, against the Calamity's Son. Not anymore. He was, after all, no more than a recurring itch in the history of things. A sickness long dealt with by her defender, both of whom were now forgotten in the cycles of time. Like dawn and dusk, a forgettable fact of life, endlessly repeating in infinity.

"Will you miss me?" asks the silver demon, his voice caressing Cloud's ears even as his own eyes were fluttering closed in death.

"Yes," Cloud answers, monotone. His usual response to this obvious question, repeated time and time again. Answered like one answers if the sun is up, or the night has begun. Repetitive, lifeless, a truth they both knew before the question was asked, repeated again only if only to remind himself that he has a voice, and if he has a voice, then he is alive. Cloud will miss him. At least, until he comes again. Until the next time Sephiroth returns from the dead.

Until the next time he returns to remind Cloud that there is something of Cloud still left.

Sephiroth laughs, altruistic greed barely perceptible behind the soft gasp of his joyous final breath. A muted elation. A casual, cutting reminder of his twisted victory so long ago. The demon fades once more, acid green wisps of corrupt lifestream dispersing like mist. Cloud breathes in, he's earned a short respite. Lowering his sword, the air passes into his chest like mint, sharp and jarring and painfully stretching his lungs, but there's no scent or flavor or hint of anything at all. It's just the first breath after a long, hard battle. A battle that will never end, Cloud knows, because Sephiroth will never let him go. And why would he? They are two sides of the same coin. Not two different faces, looking at the world from opposite each other, never to see eye to eye. But the same thing, a single object of melted metal cut so that you can look into it from different angles to see the same core from either side.

It was horrid, placid truth. They were inseparable in their own distorted way. And why wouldn't they be? In the end, Sephiroth was just a normal part of Cloud's life. A part of him.

Cloud answers "Yes," when Sephiroth asks if he will miss him, because Sephiroth was the one constant Cloud had to remember himself. Yes. He would miss him. He would miss him, until he appeared again. Because really... who wouldn't miss a part of themselves when it disappeared in front of their eyes?

Cloud sighs, feeling the air in his lungs a bit more keenly than normal, but soon feeling little at all. He watches as he flexes his hand absentmindedly, unsure of what to do with part of himself gone. He blinks. He feels, and yet his mind is abstract, feeling everything from a distance. Like he's on autopilot.

This is not a new feeling. This is how it's been for so, so long.

He notices, absently, that something is... amiss? That there is something there, that the hooks are set firmly. He has not shaken them this time. They have not let him go. That there's a growing, dark elation in his belly that he doesn't feel at all. It's all abstract. There's shock, and joy, and apprehension, and humility. He is marveling at his own success. He sighs and looks around. Rolls his shoulder. Puts one foot forwards, and watches his own leg go through the motion disinterestedly. Ecstasy, victory, innocent happiness, covetous glory, fascination, exalted reverence. His glorious triumph. Nothing.

Cloud feels little. He mentally hums and ponders. The swordsman's only sensation is _tired_. Small wonder when he's fought and defeated his foe once more. He looks to the skies, brilliant and warm and happy as it starts to rest, as if no murder had set foot underneath it. As if blood had not been spilled. Innocent and uncaring. It was cruel, how unbothered the world was. He blinks, snorts softly, lets his mind loosen with an internal yawn. He feels Sephiroth's presence push down, and wonders mildly where his body is. Well. No. Of course he knows where it is. It faded into green light. The other body, that is.

Cloud and Sephiroth. Their minds touched each other so much, Cloud was starting to wonder if they'd ever been separate. The answer was an obvious no. You couldn't separate two parts of a single being. Not for long.

He feels a gentle pressure smothering him. Constricting around his mind. He's a babe in the gullet of a snake, crushed and surrounded, and he lets the soft presence soothe him like a mother tucking her child in with a blanket. It's been a long, hard fight, and he's tired. He's won.

He's _won_.

Cloud lets his body drag itself under a nearby cliff's overhang. He looks to where Sephiroth's corpse disappeared with mute curiosity. There's shock, disbelief, even disdain all resonating from somewhere far away. And sinister hunger at what is now his. He's won. He's won. _He's won! _Cloud can feel the euphoria echo within his mind. And he's not sure he feels any of it at all.

He's tired, and he wants to sleep, wants to surrender to his exhaustion. And he thinks he can indulge this one last little human provision, this one little vice. He's more than earned it. This long game has been played to completion. He lets his head drop to the soil, lets his body go lax, lets himself feel the caress of the one who _loves him hates him owns him _Mine_ now mine __**forever**_ the sensation of drifting fingers through his hair calming soothing in a choking hold around his neck. No breath no air. Mine mine all mine finally mine joyous sickening wonderful victory _mine_. Obsession. His precious possession clutched tightly to his breast, snapping his neck, owning him. Cupping his face in his hands, kissing his forehead in blessing as claws in his neck pierce tear stab bleed him out. The broken, empty-eyed puppet curled content in his arms.

Sephiroth's presence has not faded like his body. But Sephiroth is him. Just Cloud. Just another part of him. Cloud. Another part. Him.

He is Sephiroth.

And after hundreds, thousands of years of fighting and dying and failing. Of the planet looking on, forgetting them. (So sure in its safety, foolish, ignorant of the inevitable.) Of the unstoppable force and the immovable object. Of chipping away at a defense that had forgotten how to break, forgotten that it_ could_ break. Of slowly, lovingly shattering his Cloud (_His_ _Cloud His Cloud __**His**__!_) to pieces like sweet sweet candy...

He has done it.

He has _won_.


End file.
